


This Is The Countdown

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Episode Related, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-14
Updated: 2005-05-14
Packaged: 2018-12-27 12:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12080889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: He knew I'd leave with promises and over the days and months and years the promises would turn into maybes and then hopefullys, and then 'I wonder how he's doing after all these years.' He knew I'd be sitting in Hollywood with a photo album on my lap, full of forty pages of his smile and his eyes and his face. He knew that over time I'd have to look at the pages less and less, and eventually the book would just end up on a shelf reserved for memories, a shelf that collected dust and tears. And he knew that the tears would stop after a while, we both knew that one day I'd look back and say, "Well I didn't want it to mean that much to me anyways."





	This Is The Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

So, Hollywood.

Hollywood's not as scary of a word as I first imagined it. In fact, it's even more so. It absolutely fucking terrifies me, and even now I have to stop myself before I say it out loud. Stop and think and tell myself - hey it's alright, it's just a word, just a place, just a new time in your life - and then I stutter through the H and barely make it past the 'ah' before my stomach is twisting and I'm whispering the 'ley' and close to tears by the time I manage 'wood'. So I just don't say it. When people hear and congratulate me on the new job, I just smile and force my eyes to shine a little bit brighter because everything they're saying is right - I must be excited and I must be proud of myself for landing that once in a lifetime opportunity. Except then my smile tightens and shakes and I can barely keep my eyes open, much less bright.

In fact, the only thing scarier then Hollywood, is Pittsburgh. Leaving Pittsburgh. Thinking about Pittsburgh. Missing Pittsburgh. Coming back to Pittsburgh after I realize Hollywood is the shits, only to realize nobody cares because they've all moved on and I'm stuck at the start again. Because of fucking Hollywood. And then suddenly I'm back tracking, debating unpacking the few boxes I've got ready to be moved because I'm fucking terrified - right down to my bones.

And I mean, it's not like I have a lot in Pittsburgh. I don't have a great job, I don't have a house and two-point-five kids with a wife that cooks me dinner every night. Cause really, what do I have? An invitation to move into my definately-not-a-boyfriend-because-we-don't-have-a-relationship's loft, and a lifetime full of memories. And how fucking great are these memories; getting kicked out of my parent's house after finding out my parents discovered I'm a fag, getting smashed in the side of the head with a baseball bat - and how funny is that, I have a memory of something I hardly remember - and a handful of other fuck ups that I've had attached to my name over the years.

But it's not like I have a lot in Hollywood. I have a movie deal, and a couple million dollars. A movie deal that will probably fall through, and a couple million dollars I probably won't see for ten years. And I mean, I guess money's money. But I don't have the invitation to move into my definately-not-a-boyfriend-because-we-don't-have-a-relationship's loft, and I don't have the memories of the time I woke up with my definitely-not-a-boyfriend - embarrassed that I caught him staring at me, and I don't have the Babylons or the Diners or the Debs or the Gus'. And I weighed that for a long time before I accepted the job, wondering what was more important - everything or nothing?

The worst decision I made was asking Brian about it. Immediately he went on the defensive, saying that he wasn't going to be the one to hold me back here, that there was no way he'd let me move into the loft if I declined the offer in Hollywood. And I asked him for weeks to think about it with a clear head, what is honestly better for me in the long run and not just the next year. He just looked at me with a blank expression on his face before his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline and he told me to fuck off, that he'd call off our fake relationship if I didn't get my fucking ass out of there. And then that was that, I guess. I was moving to Hollywood for this movie deal that was supposed to be everything but meant nothing, and a big aching hole in my chest. 

The night before I left, the two of us sat around in the kitchen, avoiding each other's eyes and barely eating the take out we'd ordered. Cause we both knew that even if we made our promises and I said I'd be back in time for Christmas and that he could come visit me on weekends, that it really wouldn't matter in the end. If I was going to Hollywood, I was going to Hollywood. There would be no "I'll see you when I get back", there would only be "I'll phone you when I get there." And despite his hidden intentions (which were for the best - but if you asked him, he'd claim they somehow benefited him and what he was doing) and my lack of excitement for the move, I left and that's where we had to let it end. We didn't even fuck that last night. We were too sore from the inside out and not wanting to acknowledge that it was actually going to be the end - that this wasn't an Ethan or a Dad, this was me and I was leaving.

My flight was at six in the morning, and I didn't sleep the entire night. At five I rolled over in bed, eyes puffy and red and hair matted to one side, pretended that I thought he was actually asleep - even though I knew from the way he was breathing that he wasn't - and crawled off the mattress. I pretended I couldn't hear the way he'd inhale quickly every few minutes as I gathered the last of my things, pretended I didn't notice the way my eyes were watering up and the way my throat felt tighter as time ticked by.

The last thing I did before I left was leave him the extra key I'd used all these years. I'd taken it off of my key ring, not even knowing why I was taking it to Hollywood with me, because what keys would I use there? The one I used to open the diner in the morning? The extra one to Linds' and Mel's house for when I dropped Gus off after school? Not likely. But still, I carefully slid the key to the loft off and placed the ring back inside my pocket as I started back towards the bedroom, where Brian was still pretending to be asleep and not crying. I slowly climbed the few steps leading to the bedroom and tried not to look at the bed as I went to the dresser, carefully placing the key down on the top surface. Like it was glass, like it would break if I held it too tight. And I just looked at it for a second, I looked at it and concentrated on the shape of it so I wouldn't hear the way Brian was starting to make these soft noises, like sobs deep down in his chest. Except he wasn't sobbing because Brian never cried, ever. 

And then I left. I picked up the bag I was using as a carry on for the plane, and locked the main door behind me. Because if I hadn't locked it, if I hadn't given the key back, I wouldn't have left. I wouldn't have even made it out the door before I decided that Hollywood was too scary and too far away and could you see the sunset in Hollywood if you were in Pittsburgh?

The door slid closed behind me with a solid click, and for a moment I had a flashback to every time I'd heard that door shut. The first night I'd arrived I'd closed it myself, and how fucking funny was that. The last time I left I was closing it myself. Way to continue to bookend your life, Justin. And as that click echoed down the elevator and the stairs beside it, I froze. My blood chilled and my muscles felt like they'd snap if I tried to move at all. And then the panic set in. The empty stomach turned into empty lungs and an empty heart and an empty head and feet and knees and hips and chest and ears - empty everything. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't figure out what to do. I couldn't even start to cry because it felt like everything inside was just trying to get out, everything inside me wanted to stay but the outside of me knew it would look better in Hollywood. 

So I dropped my bag and immediately heard the crack as something inside it broke on the cold cement floor under me. It echoed through the empty space just like the sound of the shutting door had, only this time I could hear myself breathing. Quick, short spurts coming out as I started trying to open the door again, fucking kicking myself in the ass and thanking myself at the same time because I'd put the key on the dresser.

"Brian!" I yelled suddenly, hand slapping against the metal surface. "Brian! Open the door!"

I didn't know what the fuck I was saying, I didn't even know what I was doing. I was just fucking.... fucked. I was so fucked that I didn't care if I missed my flight or my layover or my hotel accommodation, I just needed back in. I felt claustrophobic but I was on the outside, I felt lost but I was where I'd been the last five years - and at the same time I felt absolutely nothing - numb from the inside out. It might've been ten seconds or it might've been a month but I heard footsteps crossing the loft and I timed my exhales to when he was moving and my inhales to when he was stepping against the floor.

The door unlocked from the inside and slid open no more then a foot before he realized I was crying and terrified of leaving and lying all those times I told him I'd be fine. And I knew it too.

"Fuck off." He whispered, sliding the door back shut. I kicked the bottom of it as I heard the lock click again and there it fucking was again, that little fucking noise that laughed at me and was on repeat in the back of my head - click, click, click, you're gone now and you can't come back, click fucking click. I could hear him walking back across the floor, his shuffled steps moving towards the bedroom and I wanted to fucking scream at him that I knew all he was going to do was lay in bed all day, curled up in blankets with blotchy eyes, and I wanted to fucking tell him that I'd miss him too, miss him so fucking much that I'd never leave because I was only outside the door and already it seemed too far away.

"Brian! Open the fucking door! Open it!" I screamed, kicking my foot against the door and maybe it hurt or maybe it didn't, it didn't register in my mind at the time. All I was thinking was how fucking pissed off I'd be at him and me and everyone if he didn't let me back in. And in the back of my mind, I thought he wouldn't. I screamed and kicked and begged and cried and made a complete fucking Queen of myself in the hallway to his loft, trying to get him to let me the fuck in. "Brian! Fucks sake!"

"Fuck off." I recognized the tone in his voice immediately, the dreary bored way he drawled the f's and punctuated the k's. And I knew the emotions behind it, knew the abandonment issues and the fact that after worrying about it all these years, I was finally fucking leaving. And that's why he'd been picking fights with me ever since I'd gotten the offer, trying to drive me away with his stupid fucking boyish antics before I left by myself. Because he was Brian fucking Kinney and nobody hurt him. "Go Justin, I don't fucking want you."

"The fuck you don't." I whispered, and I realized that maybe he hadn't heard me but then I knew he did. I could hear the hitch in his breath and the pulse in his wrists speed up and I silently wondered if maybe the loft wasn't as sound proof as I'd originally thought, wondered if the land lord had heard our million and one fucks crystal clear. "Brian let me in."

And that was it. The sound of silence before the lock released and the door slid open. And there he was, standing in the middle of the door with the same pants I'd seen him in the night before, hair all pressed to the middle of his head and eyes wide and blood shot. And I realized what between us was thick and heavy and not closure at all. It wasn't goodbye but it wasn't see you soon. It wasn't I miss you and it wasn't I'll forget you eventually. It was just nothing.

"Your flight is in twenty minutes." He stated, just staring at me, standing there in his hall, staring back at him. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Everything that had been fucking plastered to the insides of my brain, just waiting to tell him, had disappeared and I was left with an open mouth and a heart thumping inside my ribs. 

I paused and then a hand came up and knotted in the hair at the back of my head. "I know."

"Then what are you still standing there for?" He asked, and I felt my insides sink because it wasn't sneered and it wasn't sarcastic and it wasn't anything. It just was. It was a legitimate question with legitimate emotions behind it. And emotions and Brian Kinney and fuck, emotions, just did not belong together. Cause it was then that I fucking realized. Whether I stayed an extra night or another year, I'd still end up in Hollywood and I'd still phone once a day and then it would be once a week and then a month and then we'd be lucky to ever spoke at all. Maybe I'd write a letter one night, and fuck. I could see how that would turn out.

_Hollywood's great, I love it here. You know it's not so bad once you get to know how everything works, how everything fucking literally sucks and blows, how the only thing more plastic then the people is the, well fuck. Nothing beats the people. And it's nice, you know. My apartment is big enough for me and it's pretty clean even though I hear car alarms going off at three in the morning and drunken yelling in the streets at five. The bars are decent, the other night some guy with a lazy eye did everything but put me in a head lock to get me to blow him. I didn't. Couldn't. So you know. Don't go worrying about me. Not like you would, but. Just in case. I mean I don't think about you constantly, I don't lay awake at night wondering if maybe the door will open but it won't be some crazy fuck, just you. So you shouldn't think about me either right? I mean it's only fair. And like. So fuck, maybe I'm lying. Maybe I think about you all the time and then some but who even cares right, that doesn't affect your life anymore then it does Michael's. How is Michael anyway, is the little bastard still holding up?_

And he knew it too. He knew I'd leave with promises and over the days and months and years the promises would turn into maybes and then hopefullys, and then 'I wonder how he's doing after all these years.' He knew I'd be sitting in Hollywood with a photo album on my lap, full of forty pages of his smile and his eyes and his face. He knew that over time I'd have to look at the pages less and less, and eventually the book would just end up on a shelf reserved for memories, a shelf that collected dust and tears. And he knew that the tears would stop after a while, we both knew that one day I'd look back and say, "Well I didn't want it to mean that much to me anyways."

Even though we both seemed to know it all, we had still stood there for minutes or hours or maybe even days, just watching each other. Silent words passing between us - all he wanted was to know I'd miss him and all I could think of was the fact that one day it wouldn't matter anymore. And it didn't make sense because even though we were both thinking those thoughts, all he could say was - "When you go, I'll forget everything about you" - and all I could whisper was - "You know I'll come back as often as possible, remember to send me a picture of Gus every couple of months."

"I can't go." I had started, eyebrows raising and voice dropping and stomach knotting. And he'd laughed then, a smile curling from one end of his lips to the other as his hand came out and stopped me from coming back. Pushed against my chest and knocked the wind out of me but made me breathe again at the same time.

"The fuck you can't." 

And I saw myself in Hollywood, then. I saw myself looking in the mirror over the bathroom sink, pressing cold cloths under my eyes to make the bags go away. I saw the pile of photo albums on the shelf, collecting dust because it hurt too much to open them. I saw the phone bills and the charges to Pittsburgh, the way Brian's number wasn't listed but everybody else's was. I saw myself asking Michael how he was, how everything was, and I saw him smiling and saying it was okay - that everything had been better, but it was still okay. And I saw myself writing letters, I saw me licking stamps and cringing as the taste hit, saw them arriving in Brian's inbox at Kinnetik. And I could see the look on his face when he'd open the envelope addressed from Mr. Hollywood, and read first line because it hurt too fucking much to read the rest.

_Hollywood's great, I love it here._


End file.
